


Pretty

by Graendoll



Category: Knives Out (2019)
Genre: F/M, One Shot, Plot Twists, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Ransom Drysdale Being an Asshole
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-02-21
Updated: 2020-02-21
Packaged: 2021-02-28 05:21:17
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,218
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22828600
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Graendoll/pseuds/Graendoll
Summary: Ransom is up for Parole. Prison has left him badly in need of a manicure.
Relationships: Marta Cabrera/Ransom Drysdale
Comments: 31
Kudos: 355





	Pretty

**Author's Note:**

> Yes this was inspired by my own tweet.
> 
> No I have no regrets.
> 
> Yes I'm writing more Mansom, but I have like a really plotty fic that's at about 35k and if you know me you know I pre-write everything so this is just something to tide me over while I finish that one up.
> 
> Hope you enjoy xoxox
> 
> Find me on Twitter @Mokelly1066

The parole hearing took place exactly thirty-seven months into his twelve-year sentence. He’d had excellent lawyers during the trial and had charmed the pants off the jury (or at least one of them) but that fucking taped confession the state trooper had managed to get submitted into evidence had put the final nail in his coffin.

And prison was definitely the closest Ransom had ever come to dying.

The first few months had been a shock, his smart mouth and WASPish looks landing him in more than a few situations he was decidedly ill equipped to talk his way out of. Luckily for him, he was athletic enough to not have his ass completely beaten to shit, but that didn’t mean he didn’t spend the better portion of three weeks sporting a shiner.

After the initial adjustment period, however, he began to thrive. Nothing like being the most narcissistic, manipulative bastard in a sea of derelicts to let a man really shine. By the end of his first six months behind bars he had managed to bribe a handful of guards and negotiate his way to the top echelons of prison society. Sure, it wasn’t fucking tea with Linda’s fundraising groupies, or golf with the rest of the trust fund crowd, but Ransom wasn’t particularly concerned about that. In some ways, he was more among his kind here, surrounded by criminals, than he was out in the world, surrounded by fucking assholes.

The fights stopped, no longer necessary, and the added advantage of having access to money on the outside helped him live, if not in luxury, at least in comfort. So, after three years of peacocking, mind-numbing boredom broken up only by exercise, prolific reading, and exhibitionistic masturbation, Ransom responded to the possibility of parole with mixed feelings. Sure, he’d love to get his nails done and fuck something other than his hand, but there was something to be said for being comfortable and accepted in the skin of a killer.

Linda had him prepped, four hours total at eight-hundred dollars an hour, so that they had the best chance of getting him out. He spent most of the time wasting her money, rocking back in the plastic chair and chewing on the wooden coffee stirrer he’d swiped from the canteen. Every once in a while, he’d let the chair fall forward, scaring the absolute shit out of the lawyer. By the third meeting he was bored with the game, instead leaning over the table and flicking the man’s pen whenever he tried to write something down just to be a shit.

He drafted a letter for the parole board that was straightforward and to the point.

He had it memorized.

_To whom it may concern,_

_I, Ransom Drysdale, do hereby request that the state of Massachusetts kiss my ass._

He knew Linda would read it. There was a ninety percent chance she’d edit it and ensure the version that was sent to the parole board was much more eloquent and contrite. Because even though she fucking hated him and thought he was a piece of shit, she was still his mother.

Also, it looked terrible to have a close relative in prison. Her brunch friends had probably flipped their shit.

The morning of the parole hearing had Ransom escorted by the guards to a part of the prison he’d heretofore never seen. He was provided street clothes, no doubt picked out by his mother since they were shit he’d never be caught dead in (he literally hadn’t worn a button down since boarding school) and was led to a transport van where he was chained to the floor like some sort of livestock. The drive to the courthouse where his parole hearing was being held took about fifteen minutes and when the back door opened, an unfamiliar uniformed officer reached in to unlock his cuffs.

Keeping his head down, he stepped out of the van before straightening and looking around. The stairs to the courthouse were busy, people coming and going, no doubt doing things they thought extremely important. With a smirk, Ransom followed the officer, who had been joined by the driver of the van by now, up the stairs, taking in the new view. Out of the corner of his eye he saw a woman sprint up the steps, tight pencil skirt showing off a perfect ass, and it occurred to him that maybe parole wouldn’t be such a bad idea after all.

They led him through security, where he submitted to the frisking routine he was more than familiar with at this point, and then into the courtroom where he joined the lawyer at a table facing front. Instead of a judge’s bench at the front of the room, however, there was a sort of semi-circle of chairs, like something you’d see in a legislative chamber. Ransom leaned back and looked around the room, arms loose in his lap, curious about who would be in attendance. The door had opened and closed several times since he’d been seated with his attorney, indicating at least a few people had decided this was worth their time. The rat-faced lawyer next to him had explained that victims of the crimes and their families would be notified of the hearing and invited to speak, and Ransom had smirked, his response heavy with amusement.

_“The family of one of my victims is my actual family.”_

He had no idea if Fran had any relatives, though he hadn’t thought about it for very long. The frigid bitch certainly didn’t have a husband or children, but he supposed she might have sisters or whatever. That really only left one other possible attendee.

Marta Cabrera.

The possibility of her showing up to condemn him to another six months behind bars was something he was hoping he’d see. At the thought of her, he licked his lips and twisted further to check whether she, or anyone else he knew, had arrived. Tuned out, his mother was sitting almost directly behind him, spine so straight he wondered how far the stick up her ass actually went. She quirked a brow at him and he rolled his eyes before twisting the other way to see if there was anyone else in attendance. When his eyes landed on Marta, he froze.

She’d always been pretty in a sort of girl next door kind of way. The innocent type of beauty that made him want to get her filthy. But the last three years had added a new shine to her appearance. It was a look he’d always associated with breeding, but now knew it for what it was. She looked rich. Like she spent hundreds of dollars on her skin and hair, and had regular massages, and no stress. Her hair was longer and looked a few shades lighter, and when his eyes finally stopped long enough to land on her face, he could see that she was wearing more makeup than she ever had before.

Brown eyes stared back at him under perfectly arched brows and he narrowed his gaze at her, assessing what he could. The expression that met him was an odd cross between defiant and curious and in an effort to regain some control of their silent interaction he turned away from her, not missing the fact that the skirt she was wearing looked oddly familiar.

The parole board arrived shortly after he lost the staring contest with the nurse. The group consisted of three middle aged white men and one middle aged white woman. Ransom hadn’t really bought into white privilege when he was the actual poster child for the idea, but after three years as an inmate he recognized the truth of it; even if his minimal self awareness came from a place of self-interest and Machiavellian strategy. The odds were in his favor, he decided, and with a puff of breath he settled into his chair and let his lawyer do the talking. After twenty minutes, the moment he’d been waiting for finally arrived.

“Miss Cabrera, as one of Mr. Drysdale’s victims and a witness for the prosecution regarding the crimes that led to his incarceration, the State of Massachusetts hereby invites you to speak, if you so wish it.”

“I do, thank you.”

He looked over his shoulder, watching her stand up and smooth her skirt. Her purse was some designer monstrosity, all tooled black leather and hardware, dwarfing the rest of her which was done up in the same goddamned pencil skirt that had caught his eye on the stairs, a silk halter top, and a pair of heels his spoiled ass recognized as Louboutin’s. His eyes dropped to her hips as she walked up to the microphone sitting in front of an upholstered chair from nineteen-seventy-eight. When she sat, he met her brown gaze once more and felt a sense of anticipation creep over him as she leaned forward closer to the mic.

“Can I – do I just – talk?”

He rolled his eyes and huffed out a laugh. She may look like a honey trap, but she was still Marta.

“Only if you’re comfortable, Miss Cabrera. It can be hard on victims to speak at these hearings.”

“Sure.” She licked her lips and looked at him briefly before glancing over his shoulder at who, he presumed, was his mother. “I think – “ her eyes landed back on him again and she cocked her head in a way that made him acutely aware of the fact that while she carried that glow that you only got with money and an obscene amount of free time, that _he_ probably didn’t. His hair was long, no stylists in prison, and he stopped shaving nearly two years ago. A familiar anger rose in him as he realized she was assessing him and finding him lacking.

“I think,” she continued, “Ransom has learned his lesson.” Her eyes drilled into his and he sat up straighter momentarily before he realized what he was doing and self-corrected, leaning over the table in front of him in what he hoped was a threatening manner. He was glaring at her so hard he was surprised her stupid fucking skirt didn’t burst into flame.

“He’s a spoiled boy who treated life like a game. Like it was without consequences.” She looked up at the parole board quickly, before glancing back at him, a glint in her eye he almost recognized. “His acts were that of a desperate man.” He could tell she was enjoying it, that glint he recognized was mischief and he was so fucking floored by it he leaned back in his chair with a thud.

“And I believe, if he’s given the right motivation, he can learn to be useful to his community.”

The parole board exchanged glances before the speaker acknowledged her.

“Is there anything else you’d like to add, Miss Cabrera?”

She shook her head. “No, ma’am.”

“You may be dismissed.” Ransom’s eyes were glued to her as she made her way past them. He wanted her to look at him, was willing her to face him, but all she did was hitch her purse up over her shoulder and toss her hair back. He nearly twisted out of his seat to watch her exit from the room, the last thing he saw before she completely vanished was the flash of red from her heel. When he turned back to face front, he crossed his arms over his chest as well as could be allowed in the shackles and pulled him bottom lip between his teeth, chewing on it lightly while he thought.

The parole board released him two weeks later.

Being processed out of prison was almost a laborious and humiliating as being processed into prison, the accounting of his personal effects which had been in a bag for three years, the slow and condescending way the guard counted out five ten dollar bills to help him get from the prison to wherever the fuck he was going. He ripped the money out of the guard’s hand with a muttered _‘asshole’_ before stepping out onto the pavement, ostensibly a free man assuming he didn’t get a wild hair and try to kill someone.

He remembered the look on Marta’s face when she testified at his hearing and wondering how long it would be before he tried to murder the little bitch a second time. He’d known since he was eight that he was a spoiled little shit, but that didn’t mean he needed some fucking thief of a nurse calling him out on it in front of his _lawyer_. He put on his sunglasses and headed towards the Land Rover parked a few feet away.

“Linda.”

“Oh, honey, I’m so glad you’re out.” She opened her arms and leaned towards him.

“You fucking hug me and I’ll kill you.”

She sighed and put the cigarette to her mouth, taking an inhale before blowing smoke in his face. “You always were a drama queen.”

“Yup.” He stepped around her and slid into the passenger’s seat, shutting the door behind him and putting his foot up on the dash before pulling the visor down. The mirror reflected the image of a man in desperate need of a shave, a haircut, a facial, and probably an eyebrow wax. He looked down at his hands. And a manicure. “Fuck me.”

Linda slid into the driver’s seat and looked at him. “You look like shit.”

“My mother, ladies and gentlemen.”

“Please, Ransom, we both know I’m just being honest for Christ’s sake.”

The drive to his place was done in near silence. He had nothing to say and it was fairly clear she had nothing to ask. When they pulled into the driveway, he glanced up at the house. Something seemed off and if he didn’t know better, he’d think someone was home.

“Huh.” He reached for the handle and opened the door, getting hallway out of the car before his mother’s voice stopped him.

“Come by for brunch on Sunday. I’ll have that lovely girl from the catering company make you a cake.”

“Get me a hooker, and I’m there.” He stepped out before he could respond to her hiss, slamming the door on whatever retort she had for him. He yanked the sunglasses off his face and glared up at the house before opening the front door. It wasn’t like he expected the alarm to go off, but his sense of unease increased when he realized the stale air and musty odor he’d been expecting wasn’t anywhere to be found.

Tossing his sunglasses carelessly on the table to the right of the door, he made his way through the living room, the wall of windows shining clearly as though they’d been cleaned recently, and stepped into the kitchen only stop in his tracks.

Marta spun on her heels, wine bottle in one hand and two glasses in the other. “Shit, you scared me.”

He leaned against the counter and crossed his arms over his chest while he took her in. She was barefoot, loose pants a la Joni, and one of his sweaters.

“What the fuck are you doing?”

“Making dinner. Or starting to.” She flipped the wine glasses over and set them on the counter-top carefully before pouring two glasses of rose. When she reached out and handed him one, he accepted, frowning down at her over his nose and the rim of the glass while he drank the entire thing. He wiped his mouth with the back of his hand and set the glass on the table.

She glanced at the empty glass and then looked back up at him before taking a drink of her own wine.

“I thought I was going to choke on my tongue when I saw you today.” He stepped towards her and pulled the wine out of her hand, setting her glass next to his empty one. “Three years is a long time.”

She looked up at him, eyes open and lacking the hint of mischief hed seen at the hearing .

“I dressed up for you. I felt like such a fool, I thought I would puke just from that. You barely even looked at me.”

He pushed her against the counter, pinning her between his body and the edge of the granite. “I looked at you. I jerked off to that skirt every night for two weeks.”

She licked her lips, palms on the countertop.

“You look -" she stopped and he knew right then she thought he looked like something the cat dragged in.

“I look like a fucking criminal.”

She smiled and reached up with her hands, running her fingers through his long locks. “You are a fucking criminal.” He sucked in a breath when she tugged his hair, stretching up on her tiptoes to press her mouth to his. He opened for her, letting her tongue slide against his while he pressed closer to her. She leaned into his body, her hands anchored in his hair the only thing keeping him from bending her backwards over the counter. “You still taste like you, though.”

“You taste like cheap rose.” Wrapping his arms around her, he lifted her up and sat her on the counter before stepping in between her legs and capturing her jaw in his hands, tugging her mouth towards his in another kiss. It was open mouthed and filthy, and he devoured her, dipping his tongue into her again and again. He faintly registered that her legs wrapped around his hips and tugged him towards her while he sucked her lip between his teeth and bit down softly, pulling a low moan out of her. Her response to his passionate impatience was to tighten her grip on his hair and suck on his bottom lip, both of which only added to his desire. His hands dropped to her hips and tugged her against him until her hot core was brushing against the front of his pants, and he ground his pelvis against hers a few times before she broke the kiss and leaned back again, releasing his hair long enough to grab the wine glass and take another long drink from it. He watched the muscles in her neck work as she swallowed, leaning down to lick a stripe up from her shoulder to her jaw.

“God I was so worried it wouldn’t work.”

“Which part?” he nibbled on her ear and smirked as she shivered underneath his mouth.

“The part where you actually got out. I was worried you’d be there forever.”

He leaned back and looked at her. “Huh.”

“It was bad enough – the planning. And then thinking about Harlan and – “

He stopped her with another kiss, forcing his tongue inside her mouth in an effort to swallow the words he didn’t want to hear. Harlan’s death had been his plan from the start, but when he’d realized what had happened, that she hadn’t actually killed the old man with the swapped meds, he figured out another way to get what he wanted, which was simply his part of the money. When he told her he’d help her go all the way, he hadn’t been lying, exactly, but he had been withholding information. It was only after she showed up at his house first thing the next morning while he was half dressed in a towel, fresh from the shower, that another, completely different plan, had been decided upon.

Granted some of it had to do with the fact that she’d practically attacked him, shoving him against the wall while his wet hair was still dripping water down his chest, telling him some story about stress and needing an orgasm. About how if he would just be good for her she’d give him the best blow job of his life, and he’d somehow ended up fucking her against the wall of his living room, wincing at the scratches she left along his back and nearly passing out from how hard he came.

They’d agreed, then, to proceed with _her_ plan. She’d keep Fran from dying, he’d keep her from being found guilty of Harlan’s murder, and they would split the fortune.

But then Fran had fucking up and died anyway, and he’d been so pissed at Marta, so convinced shed tricked him, that he’d tried to kill her. Shit went sideways and he ended up in prison. She sent him a single letter, which he’d immediately burned after reading, and he didn’t hear from her again. The parole hearing had been the first word he’d had from her in three years and he wondered now if maybe he hadn’t understood the game they were playing to begin with.

Her hands tugged hard on his hair and he winced, pulling away from her. She looked up at him while combing her hands through his hair and he felt like she was dissecting him where he stood. It wasn’t entirely unpleasant, a part of him wondering what she’d find if she laid him entirely bare.

“You do look like shit.”

“Up your ass, Cabrera.”

Her face changed and she tightened her hold on his waist before leaning up to whisper against his cheek. “Is that how you want it? Fuck my ass in your kitchen?”

“Jesus.” His hands slipped inside her shirt, thumbs running under the waist of her pants, reaching under until he had two handfuls of her ass. “Yeah. Yeah, I want to fuck you in my kitchen. Ass, pussy, mouth. Anything other than my own hand would be a goddamned delight.”

She released his hair before leaning back slightly, giving him another once over. He could feel his cock harden and he used the grip on her bottom to pull her against him while she lifted his oversized sweater over her head and tossed it onto the floor. She wasn’t wearing a bra, and he watched as she ran her hand over her breasts once before she reached for his shirt and tugged it out of his pants.

“So many buttons. I didn’t even think you owned shirts like this. It’s not like you.”

Her small hands started at the bottom, slowly undoing the buttons as she worked her way up his chest. He ignored her comments, instead leaning down to run his tongue over her collar bone, sucking a bruise into the hollow at the base of her neck. When she got to the last button, she pushed the shirt off over his shoulders, rendering him mostly topless.

“Oh my god.”

He lifted his head from the path his mouth was making towards her breasts. “What?”

Her fingers traced over his arms, pushing the fabric of his shirt down until is was stretched across his back. “You got tattoos?”

He rolled his eyes at her and latched on to her breast, tugging at her nipple with his mouth while she gasped and writhed at the stimulation. He leaned into her hard enough that she got the hint and lay back across the counter, releasing him long enough to shove the bottle of rose and the wine glasses aside while he remained attached to her breast. With a little bit of effort, he managed to rid himself of his shirt without losing contact with her tits, tossing it carelessly aside. Her fingers ran through his hair, combing through it until it was behind his ears so she could touch his face with her thumbs.

“You’re so hairy.”

He used his teeth on her nipple, earning him a tug on his hair in retaliation. “Stop fucking pointing out my subpar grooming.”

“Don’t be sensitive, I like it. You look,” she paused, “rugged.”

He lifted his head and glared at her, causing her smile to grow. “Fuck you.”

“Yes, do that.”

He yanked her towards him, grinding his hips against hers.

“I dreamed of this pussy for three years.” Pressing his erection against her heat, he thrust a few times, teasing her as much as he could through their clothing.

“I dreamed of your cock. I wanted to come see you so you could fuck me.”

“I would have too, bent you over the goddamned table.” He yanked her pants down over her hips, exposing her to him. He brushed the back of his hand over the top of her mound and she released the grip she had on him with her thighs, letting him lift her legs up over one shoulder while he tugged her pants off with the other. He struggled a bit at the end, pulling them off her feet with a frustrated growl that evoked a giggle from her. She quickly covered her mouth, her laughter turning into a sigh when he spread her legs and put an ankle on each shoulder so that he was looking down at her very core.

“I’m gonna fuck that smirk right off you, Cabrera.” His hands worked on the fly of his pants, yanking them down and stepping out of them. Her expression was full of want and she licked her lips as he moved closer. Sliding his hands under her ass, he pulled her to the very edge of the counter. Entranced by the vision before him, pink lips glistening with evidence of her arousal, he ran his hands over her hips until his thumbs brushed the soft hair covering her.

“Look at you, fucking spread out like goddamned buffet.” Placing a thumb on each side of her entrance he spread her open, pulling a soft noise out of her. When he glanced up she had one hand on her nipple, the other covering her mouth.

“Don’t be shy, Marta, I want to hear you.” He released her with one hand, dipping into her just a bit before sliding up to her clit and slowly circling it with his finger. She arched her back, pulling her hand off her mouth and slapping it down onto the counter, the other busy teasing her breasts while he worked her clit. When she began to buck against him, he slid a finger into her, forcing a gasp out of her while she lifted her hips, digging her heels into his back.

“God, that’s so good.” She panted out the words between breaths. “You’re so good at that.”

He fucked her slowly, stroking her until she was so wet there was liquid running down to his palm.

“Shit, Marta.” He removed his finger from her, her disappointed whimper quick to follow, and sucked it into his mouth. “Your cunt tastes like apple fucking pie.” He grabbed her hips and lifted her ass off the counter, leaning over and shoving his tongue into her wet hole before wrapping his lips around her clit and fucking her.

She was reduced to babbling within a few minutes, Spanish he didn’t understand flying across her lips mixed with English filth he definitely recognized. He was eating her up like a man starved, using his tongue to flick her clit and fuck her while his hands kept a tight grip on her thighs, keeping her from moving or jerking away from him while he worked. Her knees tightened around his ears and he hefted her up so only the topmost part of her shoulders was touching the counter. When he glanced up from lapping at her cunt, he saw her working her nipples, pulling and pinching at them with an almost brutal efficiency. She cried out when he slid two fingers into her and it only took two strokes across her walls for her to come, pulsing around him and gushing onto his tongue with a groan.

Impatient to finally sink into her, he let go of one of her thighs to tug his boxers off, releasing his erection with a bounce. Once he kicked them off his ankles, he lowered her ass to rest on the counter, feet still draped over his shoulders. Her expression when she looked up at him was blissed out and soft from her orgasm and he felt his lips twitch up in a smile.

“Come on, _mi amor_. I want you inside me.”

He wiped his mouth, beard obscenely wet with her come, before he reached for his cock and slid it against her slick cunt. Without much effort, he slipped into her, sinking in to the hilt, and nearly came on the spot.

“Jesus shit, Marta.” He gripped her hips hard, leaning over her and pressing his head against her chest.

“Come on, Ransom. Fuck me, baby.”

He pulled out of her slowly, reveling in the feeling of her wet heat, the way her walls clung to him. Placing a rough kiss to her lips, he pushed back into her again, shaking with the effort it took not to slam into her over and over until he came.

“Just fuck me.”

“Goddamnit, Marta – “

She leaned up and nipped at his chin. “Fuck. Me.”

He straightened and grabbed her thighs, pressing them to her chest. “Shut up.”

Her eyes flared and she pressed a finger to his mouth, pushing it between his lips. “Make me.”

Ransom deliberately pulled out before slamming back into her, pulling a whimper from her before covering her mouth with his palm.

“Be quiet.” He pressed his fingers into her mouth while he pulled out and slammed into her again. And again. He fell into a rhythm, watching her tits bounce with each thrust, grazing his lips and his teeth across her legs while she sucked in his fingers and clung to his wrist. When her teeth bit down on his knuckle a little too hard he pulled his hand away from her and wrapped it around her other thigh. He held her as wide open as he could, spreading her legs and pushing them up so high her knees were nearly at her ears, getting his cock into her so deep he wondered if he'd ever get out. Or if he even wanted to.

Even nearly bent in half she met each of his thrusts with a soft grunt and a twist of her hips, pulling him against her with hands tugging at his hair, whispered nonsense words falling between them. He felt the orgasm start low in his spine and released one of her legs to press a finger to her clit, rubbing as he fucked her harder and harder, pushing her across the counter with each ingress only to tug her back into position so he could thrust into her again.

“Come for me, _mi amor_.”

He arched his back and slammed into her one last time before he came with a growl. He managed to pull another pulsing orgasm from her, the aftershocks of which had him twitching and jerking, his brain blanking with the intensity of the sensation. Fully spent, he collapsed on top of her, releasing his grip on her legs so she could relax her limbs, and letting himself settle into her heated embrace. The two of them lay there, quiet and spent, for several minutes before either spoke.

“So, Cabrera, when do I get to fuck your ass?”

She slapped his shoulder with mock offense. “Eat shit, Ransom.”

There was a pause before he muttered into her shoulder, “I really hope that’s not what you made for dinner.”

**Author's Note:**

> Yes, I know the ending is ridiculous, but it's like 12:30 at night and I have work in the morning.


End file.
